stranded god
Pete Cholewinski
Jason talkes concrete,
words echoing
in the underpass
where he paints murals -
never finishing.
He composes love sonnets
on crumpled newspaper
at el platforms
then lets the wind take them -
unconfessed.
We share dreams
on cafe afternoons,
and sometimes he kisses me
from behind sad eyes
I'll never understand.
I look back
while catching a cab,
but Jason's still
sitting in the cafe -
watching me go.
